


Don’t Skimp Out On The Meat

by EnigmatiCiphers



Category: The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (Movies)
Genre: Cannibalism, Child Abuse, Misogyny, People cookin’, Sad, im bad at tagging, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:54:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22972090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnigmatiCiphers/pseuds/EnigmatiCiphers
Summary: A quick one-shot I did of it Drayton had a daughter.
Kudos: 5





	Don’t Skimp Out On The Meat

The heavy pot wobbled in her hands. She gripped the heated handles and gritted her teeth as she hauled the chili from the stove over to the counter. It was a burdensome process, the weight straining deep within her shoulders and leaving an ebbing pain that seemed to never leave. Just as soon as it started to ease, she’d be right back in that kitchen and put to work.

Despite her age, there was a roughness to Dot’s hands. The calloused fingers of a little girl who worked the washboard, swept the house, and other duties such as cooking and soap-making. It was a rough process, making soap. Had to be careful handling the lye. Chemical burns were all too common, but it was better than the blindness she ran the risk of accruing. Never ever wipe your eyes. That was a rule. Don’t put your fingers in your mouth either; that might as well be a death sentence. Each of these instructions had been affirmed with the handle of an old corn broom.

As she went to dunk her hands in the water basin, she thought of another rule: mind your measurements. Dot winced as the soap bar seemed to bite at her skin. Something was off about the recipe with this one--too much lye and you’ll burn your skin as you used it. As Dot went to dry her hands off on the length of a torn rag, the floors behind her creaked.

_“How’s ‘at coming along, Dottie?”_

It was her father. He seemed to be in high spirits this evening, a fact of which she was wary. Good moods were so easily snuffed out, leaving behind them dreadful tempers which were as predictable as a raccoon trapped in a beauty parlor. “It’s goin’,” Dot let out a sigh as she nodded over to the pot she’d set atop the countertop.

“You--” he stumbled forwards, with his hand raised. There was a stutter in his motions. Dot winced. With her eyes squeezed shut, she braced with her hands wrapped tight around the washrag. Nothing. Her chest burned. In and out. She released the breath she’d been holding in her chest and willed her eyes open. Just a peek. He was lifting the pot from the countertop and placing it down on a wooden block he’d drug out from the cabinet. “Damn it Dot, you idiot--You’re gonna fuck up my good counter. ”

“Can’t have nothin’ in this house, what with all the dumb shits walkin’ around thinkin’ none of this costs money,” he hissed as reached out to jerk the washrag from her hands, “Save more money with a huntin’ bitch than the likes’a you.” Without a moment's thought, he began wiping off the side of the pot. Spillage from her haphazardly stirring. Couldn’t have that. More on the rim meant more gone to waste. “Costin’ me more than yer worth.”

Dot pierced her lips and bit her tongue. Her cheeks burned red, as did the pit of her palm as she dug her fingernails deep into a fist. Her eyes welled up, an overflow of emotion stifled just to save face. Her narrowed gaze remained settled on her Father. Little acts of rebellion came in making faces when she thought he wasn’t looking. Key word: thought. It was like prodding a bull. Just as things began to quiet down, they were right back at square one. “Now, young lady, you can—“ he held a pointed finger out at Dot, his hand shaking as he continued, “You can stop makin’ ‘em faces at me unless you’re lookin’ to get a whoopin’.”

Her face turned pale as a sheet. Dot’s knees threatened to buckle under the limp weight of her shoulders. She had to have looked like a deer in headlights; it wasn’t flight or fight that she responded with, but freeze. Like an opossum laying belly-up in the road, only to find that the truck ahead wasn’t any ordinary beast. It wasn’t stopping for anything.

Looking down at her, his lips twisted into a snarl and he shook his head, “Tell your uncle to stop doin’ your makeup.” He tossed her the same wash rag he’d used to clean the chilli pot. Dot had barely caught it with her hands, the wet fabric almost slipping out from her hands. “Wipe it all off. Makes you look like a painted whore.”  
Reluctantly, she complied. The lipstick smeared off against the rag along with the blush and eyeshadow; something of the mix was sure to stain, but that wasn’t her worry. Wiping it off, she could feel a pit calcifying within her stomach. A heavy sense of disappointment pressing in her gut. _Bubba had spent so much time on her makeup._ It was the whole morning. They’d spent it in front of an old vanity mirror trying to fit both of their faces in the frame. She’d done his, and he did hers. Originally a one-time event had become a regular routine.

Her grip on the rag grew limp as she barely swept the water across her face. A heavy sigh lifted from her chest and she set the cloth down on the counter. Dot focused on her feet, watching the floor as she went to the cabinet to fish out a stack of plates. It was about time she got the table set. Another burden to bare she was just about to pass by her father without a glance until he turned back around. He let out a breathy chuckle, his mouth stretched into a grimace. “See? You look a whole lot better without all that crud coverin’ your face.”  
He reached out to ruffle her hair and then gently tap her shoulder to shoo her along.

“Get on, now. Work ain’t done just yet.”


End file.
